


Backs To The Wall

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Everyone Needs A Hug, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Rebellion, War, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-03 08:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A soldier who's forgotten what he was fighting for in the first place finds a common soul in a jaded resistance fighter.  A past act of kindness paid back in kind brings them together- and slowly they find there could be more to each other than just a shared enemy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So for nostalgia's sake I logged into my old Wattpad and found this fanfic I wrote back in 9th grade but never had the guts to post. Honestly I haven't watched or read SNK in years, but rereading this (and the list of suggested chapter titles all ripped directly from emojified song lyrics) brought me back to the deep affection I used to have for this series and got me excited all over again over the character relationships and possibilities. I have about three chapters worth of material to post and who knows... maybe I'll write some more. We'll see based on the response. Anyway, here's the rare SNK pic that I think may actually be darker than the source material.

The air was searing, burning into Jean's lungs. Flakes of ash floated gently through the air, alighting gently upon the eyelashes of the soldiers. From somewhere behind him, the sound of shrill screams echoed through the burning shells of the town. The noises stopped suddenly in a wet smacking sound and peals of hoarse laughter. Jean tensed, teeth gritted, then relaxed. His uniform was too large, and he adjusted it with a shrug of his shoulders, then returned to his task.

Only a few building had been spared the flames, and it was the new recruits' duty to search them for valuables. Around him, his fellow soldiers celebrated. This was his platoon's final mission before going on leave for a month. They were a special operations squad, assigned to leave the Capitol and root out small holdfasts hidden in the wilderness. When they found one, they burnt it, bringing the survivors back to the city to be subjected to God-knows-what. With another shudder at the thought, Jean pried open another box.

"Kirchstein!" It was Annie. Jean took a deep breath. She couldn't see him on edge. He knew he was already being watched, after what had happened on their last mission. He turned.

"What the fuck do you want, can't you see I'm busy here?" She had her gun slung over her shoulder, and was gripping the hair of someone who had fallen to their knees beside her. Jean couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl.

"Don't talk back to me. My magazine's empty, and the Sergeant said we gotta kill this bitch here". She nodded slightly towards the person kneeling at her feet. "So do it for me."

"Why should I?" Jean rose, already knowing that he had too.

"'Cause the Sergeant said so, that's why." She replied. "Catch". With a quick jerk of her arm, she sent the pathetic, quivering lump of humanity skidding across the dusty ground towards Jean's feet. He glared at her.

"Why?" Annie paused, one hand poised to brush a lock of white blond hair out of her eyes.

"Why do you have to kill him? He had banned books. And stop asking questions. You know what happens to people who ask questions." Jean locked eyes with her, but broke her gaze after a moment, and reached for his gun, knowing he was defeated.

"Do it in the woods, Kirchstein. You know the rules." Of course he did. The platoon had to dispose of any corpses they made. "I'll take care of your job. When you're done, consider yourself on leave." He nodded, a sour feeling in the back of his throat, and reached down to entangle his fingers in the sobbing boy's hair. Yanking him unsteadily to his feet, Jean pulled him towards the forest. Annie couldn't resist slipping in one more jab.

"You're gay, aren't you? He's pretty, have some fun!" Jean whirled, and the boy whose hair he gripped was pulled off his feet with a choking sound.

"Bitch!" Annie ignored him with a smirk, and Jean had no choice but to start for the woods, dragging his captive beside him. Internally, he chided himself for getting so worked up by Annie's words. Keep a calm demeanor, don't show emotion, that's what a good soldier was supposed to do.

Once they were out of Annie's sight, Jean slowed down, letting the boy he was dragging find his feet. He was small, with chin length blonde hair and large blue eyes. There was blood running down the left side of his face, which mixed with the tears and snot and spit smeared across his cheeks and chin. He walked doubled over, arms curled around his bruised ribs. His clothes were torn and filthy. When he coughed, he spat out blood.

Sensing Jean's eyes, the boy looked up. His eyes were full of emotions. Fear, anger, pain, and something else. Something more innocent. Jean blinked back him, feeling the thoughts he'd been trying to keep down for the past three months start to stir. All the other people he'd seen had deadened eyes that had given up any hope. Why was this boy still so naive? He could see that destruction all around him. He'd probably seen his friends, his family die all around him. It didn't make sense.  
"Armin!" The shout came from behind a pile of rubble. The boy's- Armin's eyes widened with realization, and Jean watched him flicker between him and the voice. The rubble shifted, sending small showers of gravel skidding across the ground, small clouds of dust settling slowly in their wake. Another boy was clambering over the rocks, limbs scrabbling for purchase on the loose stones. His green eyes were narrowed, his face was a mask of rage.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!" There was a rock in his hand, and Jean watched with a mix of horror and bemusement as a girl sprung from her hiding place beside him to grab at the charging boy. There was a cut on her cheekbone, and a trickle of blood ran down her face like a tear.

"Eren, no, you'll just get killed!" She shouted, and tackled him to the ground. Armin had his hands over his mouth, and tears streaked over his fingers. The boy and girl wrestled in the dust, the girl trying to pin him down, Eren pulling her hair, scratching at her face, trying to get away. Finally he planted a kick in her stomach, and she doubled up involuntarily, gasping frantically for breath. Eren leapt to his feet, rock raised high, and charged at Jean. Armin let out a wordless shriek, and the girl crouched on the ground made one last lunge at Eren's feet, her fingers falling short. She tried to yell something, but all that came from her mouth was a painful sounding rattle. Eren, shouting hoarsely, raised his hand to smash the stone into Jean's temple.

Without hesitation, Jean cracked the butt of his rifle across Eren's face. The boy fell to the ground, blood streaming from his nose. He turned his head, and spat out a mouthful of blood. Something gleamed white, and Jean realized he'd knocked out a tooth. Before Eren could rise again, Jean slammed his booted foot into his stomach, then his face, then his stomach again. Eren lay unmoving except for the shuddering rise and fall of his chest. With a sniff, Jean turned away from the prone boy, only to feel a hand grip weakly at his ankle.

"I'll k-kill you. You mo-monster." His fingers were slick with blood, leaking bright red streaks on Jean's boots. One eye was swollen shut, the skin around it already turning a mottled purple and blue. Blood was beginning to puddle beneath his chin, and he kept his other arm wrapped around his stomach. Each word was preceded by a desperate gasp for breath. Jean felt a surge of pity for him, almost wanting to cradle the broken boy in his arms. Then he bit his lip. He couldn't. He never could. He was a soldier, it was his duty to bring people like him down, not help them. He looked towards Armin, standing shocked, rapidly drying blood and tears coating his face, and the girl who still crouched in the dust. Then he screwed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see that, he didn't have to see that, he just had to do his duty. He took a step back, and felt the bone in Eren's arm snap beneath his heel. Eren groaned, too weak to scream.

The girl watching gasped, and reached toward Eren. "Is he dead?" Her voice was small. Jean glanced back at them, but turned away just as quickly.

"No. Not yet." A shout, and Jean knew other soldiers were running to the scene.

"What the hell is going on here!" It was Connie. The girl got to her feet, and stood over Eren's body. Her hands curled slowly into fists. Jean turned away again, grabbing Armin's arm tightly, and wrenched the boy harshly around, towards the forest. There was the sound of a fist striking flesh, and Jean felt a smug sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that that girl wasn't going down without a fight.

Armin walked complacently, head bowed, and Jean could tell by his breathing that he was crying. Once he stumbled, falling headlong into Jean, who caught him in his arms before pushing him gently upright again. Armin blinked at him, but Jean only scowled and pressed on.

In the forest, Jean released his grip on Armin, who sank slowly to the the ground, his head in his hands. Jean watched him, then busied himself loading his gun. Armin whimpered something that sounded almost like words, but were to quiet to be heard. A moment later, he repeated them, louder.

"I never did anything. I never accomplished anything. I was only a burden my whole life. Only a burden." The last sentence was whispered to himself. "And now Eren and Mikasa are probably dead too, all because of me. And I can never do anything to make up for that." Jean pointed his gun at Armin's head, finger trembling slightly on the trigger, pressing only lightly. Armin kept speaking, his voice rising. "I'm going to die, and they're going to die, and it's all my fault! It's better for everyone if I'm dead! Then no one else will die on my behalf!" He lifted his head, eyes locking with Jean's. Tears poured down his cheeks, falling to splatter on the packed dirt of the forest floor, leaving minuscule oceans that were immediately drunk in by the thirsty roots of trees. Jean's hand was shaking harder, and he willed himself to gain control. "So do it! Kill me! Please! I don't want to cause any more damage!" Jean' finger tightened on the trigger, but suddenly his wrist jerked upward, and fired the clip into the trunk of the tree above Armin's head. The lead pellets hammered into the wood.

Armin raised his head slowly. Jean, panting, lowered his gun. His hands were still shaking.

"You're dead. I shot the bullets, you're dead." Armin touched his cheek with trembling fingers.

"You didn't- you didn't." He bent double suddenly, coughing, gasping for breath. He was crying again, and both him and Jean wondered idly how so many tears could fit in such a tiny frame. Jean knelt down, reaching into the pockets of his uniform. After groping for a minute, he managed to come up with a roll of bandages, aspirin, and antiseptic wipes. Every soldier was required to carry a first-aid kit, spread throughout the uniforms many pockets.

Leaning in carefully, Jean tenderly lifted Armin's blonde bangs away from the cut of his forehead, just above his eyebrow. The strands of hair were clumped together with dry blood, the color stained from yellow to reddish brown. Carefully, carefully, he wiped away the blood around it. Armin's eyes followed his hands, and he was mouthing words to himself. The dried blood was gone, at least from the skin closest to the wound, but when Jean prodded it gently, rivulets of blood welled up in the corners. There was a flash of white bone, and Armin winced. Jean pulled his hand back.

"That probably needs stitches. How'd you get it?" Jean kept his voice steady, clinical, but his heart was pounding. If anyone ever found out about this, he'd be executed.

"I fell. I was running and I fell."

"Uh-hmm. You might have a concussion then. I can't do anything about that either. At least, though, there doesn't seem to be any dirt in it. I'll wash it out anyway. This might sting." He turned to grab the antiseptic, but Armin grabbed his wrist. Jean froze.

"Why are you doing this?" Armin's voice quivered. Jean didn't answer him, instead busying himself with cleaning out the wound. He knew how to do that. Carefully wrapping the bandages around Armin's head, the pristine white cloth contrasting with his filthy hair. Cleaning the rest of his face off as well, including the cut on his lips, which he was suddenly, painfully, aware of. He tried to run his fingers over Armin's ribs, to determine if they were broken or not, but Armin wrapped his arms around himself and have an almost imperceptible head shake, and Jean drew his hands back to rest them in his lap.

"That's all I can do." He confided in a whisper. Then paused. Armin could freeze to death. It was almost winter, and he had no idea how cold it got at night here. After a moments thought, he slid off his jacket and draped it over Armin's shoulders. Over large on him, it was practically a blanket on the smaller boy. The blonde looked at, head cocked slightly. Jean started to climb to his feet, talking as he did so.

"Try to get to the city. The Capitol, I mean. They don't really check the people coming in. Say you're a farmworker who wants to work in the city. They'll believe you. Once you're in, you could get a job as an accountant or something. You seem like you have a head for books. Or, with your looks, you could get a job at an inn, but I doubt that's really the path you wanna take. Just, go to the city, and take it from there. Make sure you get rid of that jacket though. It has my name and soldier ID number on it, and if anyone finds out about this, I'll be killed. Throw it in a river or something. Burn it. Just don't sell it. I'll leave the bandages." He paused, and glanced at Armin, who looked back at him evenly.

"What does the J stand for?"

"What?"

"Your jacket. The name is J. Kirchstein."

"Oh. Jean. My name is Jean. You're Armin, right?"

"Uh huh, Armin Artlert."

"If we ever meet up again, we don't know each other, okay?"

"One thing though."

"What?"

"Why did you do this?" Jean took another step back, thinking quickly. He knew exactly why he'd done it.

"You... You remind me of someone."

"Goodbye then. And... Thank you." Jean didn't answer, and Armin turned to leave, stumbling through the thick trees. Jean watched him, then turned and marched back to the burning town


	2. Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean leaves the barracks

Seated across from him, Rico was a model of formality. Her uniform was perfectly fitting, and looked as though it had been ironed the night before. A small badge on her breast pocket indicated that she was the squadron commander. Her silvery hair was combed back from her face, and her eyes were expressionless.

"You're one of our best, Kirschtein, and I hate to do this. But I do agree with the doctors that this is for the best."

"Shit, Rico. I, I mean, I'm fine. I can stay. I don't need a leave of duty."

"You're not going to talk me out of this. If we keep you in the squadron, you could become a liability to us. It's just for a year, and then you're welcome to re-enlist."  
"But if I'm out, where the hell am I going to sleep, or work?"

"We're willing to grant you a small pension, just enough to live on. As for housing, well, just say you're a soldier of the government. Chances are, they'll let you in. Look at it as a vacation. A well needed one, might I add."

"So you're sending me away because I've become a liability."

"A few of your fellow soldiers have made reports stating that you suffer from nightmares, depression, and mental lapses. They started not long after your first mission, and have only gotten more frequent since. Those are all signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We all think it best that you leave the military for a while. On the official documents, however, we're going to record that you've left due to the bullet wound you took in the leg during your last mission."

"That's healed! I'm fine! Let me stay, please."

"The decision has already been made. We hope to see you back in twelve months. Please collect your things from your barrack. Goodbye for now, Private Kirschtein."

"Rico-"

"Goodbye, Private Kirschtein." She turned away from him, opening a file and beginning to make a report. The conversation was over. Jean stared at her hands for a moment, then got up crisply, saluted, and walked out. 

Once he was out of the office, he slouched, running a hand through his hair. So he was on his own. Okay. He could probably find a place to stay and if worse came to worse he knew he could find work. Maybe he should do what Rico suggested and look on it as a vacation. Finally, he decided just to sleep on it.

He'd been expecting this for a long time now. Ever since he'd noticed the looks Annie was giving him in the mess hall. And Connie had put his hand on his shoulder that time, and asked if he was doing all right. Reiner had asked if he wanted to talk about it. He never said exactly what "it" was. And the countless times Sasha had started to say something but caught herself before she could. It was all leading up to this.

In the barracks, their eyes followed him as he packed his bags. He didn't have much. Clothes, mostly. A photo of his parents. A few pieces of memorabilia from the many missions outside the city he'd run. He considered it for a moment, the reached beneath the bunk next to him that had been empty for nearly four years. The army issue bag stored beneath it was identical to his except for the name stitched to the side. It was covered in dust, and a few spiders.

"We'll, that's all of it." He announced. "Rico just called me in. I've got a year of leave 'cause of that time I got shot." He laughed, and a moment later the soldiers in the barracks joined in.

"That sucks man!" Reiner bellowed. Seated beside him on the top bunk, Bertholdt said nothing. His long legs dangled off the side of the bed.

"Suck? Wish I got a year of leave! He can go get an apartment and a girlfriend!" Connie added.

"You mean a boyfriend!" Sasha corrected. She was sitting behind Connie, hands on his shoulders, chin resting on the top of his head. She was always in the boy's barracks now. Day and night. "Besides, he won't get an apartment. He'll move back in with his mom!" She tittered, and Reiner and Connie guffawed. Even Bertholdt managed a weak chuckle.

"Well, goodbye." Jean said, hefting the two duffel bags onto his shoulder. "Next time you're off duty, let's meet up. Get drunk."

"Sounds good."

"It's a plan."

"Careful not to leave me alone with your girlfriend. She'll be mine in an instant!"

"Why would you want her when you have me?" Before Connie and Sasha could start fighting, Jean cleared his throat.

"Where's Annie? I wanna say goodbye."

"In the training yard probably. That girl works herself to death." Reiner laughed at his own joke, then sobered. "Jean, really. Let's meet up. Don't be a stranger."

"Oh, I'll be back in a year anyway. You won't even have time to start missing me!" His words sat in the middle of the room, oozing subtext.

"Goodbye Jean." Bertholdt said quietly. Everyone glanced at him in surprise, and he seemed to ponder his next words for a moment. "Good luck." On that note, Jean closed the door quietly and started towards the training yard.

Annie was slamming her fists and feet into a sandbag, face emotionless, and hair shining in the midday sun. A single bead of sweat began to roll down her forehead, and she wiped it away without stopping her barrage. Her feet left plumes of dust, the fog practically obscuring her legs up to her knees. Jean remembered another dusty ground, hundreds of miles and days behind him. He was transfixed by her feet for a moment, before he blinked and remembered why he'd come.

"They're sending me away, Annie." She didn't stop, and Jean thought she hadn't heard for a minute before she answered.

"I know. Goodbye Kirschtein." Nothing else. She didn't even glance up at where he stood, two duffel bags over his shoulders, the dust she kicked up slowly beginning to settle on his boots. 

He stood there, watching her silently attack the dummy, until a bell tolled far away in the city, and she let her hand drop slowly to her sides. She looked at him then, eyes unreadable. "Didn't you just say you were going somewhere?"

"Yeah. Just wanted to say goodbye." He turned and walked away, and the sounds of Annie slamming her knee into the dummy, over and over again, were the sounds that echoed his defeat.


	3. Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean accepts candy from strangers

Jean's eyesight was beginning to get blurry around the edges. He couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had, or what the name of the blonde girl next to him was. She was small, but busty. The dress she was wearing showed that well enough. Her face reminded him of someone, but he couldn't quite recall who. Her hand was on his thigh, and he knew he should tell her to leave, but for some reason he couldn't. Maybe he should just go off with her. Maybe he was about to throw up.  
After leaving the barracks, he'd found himself in a seedy bar in the poor area of town. The blonde girl had entered somewhere between when the dizziness started, and when his voice became slurred. She'd said her name was something with a C, Crystal, maybe. Another girl, a tall one with freckles and a dark ponytail had come in with her, but now she sat in a shadowed corner. Occasionally the flickering lamplight that was the only light in pub would illuminate her narrowed eyes.  
The blonde girl, Cara, maybe, didn't pay any attention to her somber companion, choosing instead to keep up a barrage of chatter at Jean. He couldn't hear a word of it over the noise of two men fighting across the room. Gradually, she'd been inching closer to him, and part of him wanted to shove her away, or leave himself. It was hot in here, and the lamp was sending a smoky haze throughout the room. It smelled of sweat and blood and shit. Kristen, maybe, commented vaguely on the heat, and fished an ice cube out of her drink to drag slowly across the tops of her breasts, leaving droplets of water that clung to her pale skin. He watched the display disinterested, wondering idly on how girls fought with those lumps of fat on their chests. Did they hurt? He knew some of them tied them down when they went into combat. Carrie, maybe, had begun to trail her fingers lightly up his leg. Jean wanted her to stop, but was scared that if he opened his mouth he'd vomit all over her blonde hair.  
Outside, it began to rain, leaving sooty trails over the already filthy windowpanes. This bar wasn't far from the industrial sector, that must be why it was so thick. But even on the brightest days the sun had to fight it's way through a thick fog of ash sent skyward by the towering smokestacks.  
In Trost, the city where Jean had been born, it had never rained ash like it did here. The sky had been clear and beautiful. God, he missed it there. He missed his parents too, especially his mother. He hadn't seen them since he'd enlisted. Maybe since he was on leave, he could visit them. No, he couldn't. There'd be too many questions. Soft hands were winding their way around his torso, and he could feel his body responding involuntarily. How long had it been since he'd had sex? More than three years, at least. No, that wasn't quite true, it had been three years since he'd enjoyed it. After that he'd just awoken in a strange bed with a pounding headache and someone he didn't know's arms around him. Chrissy, maybe, was just another one of those unmemorable faces. He thought he might cry.  
Christa, yes, that was it, Christa, was tugging on his arm. His eyesight was swimming, and his thoughts were fuzzy, coming slowly and stupidly to him. Christa asked if he'd like to go to her apartment, and he found himself agreeing. She pulled him to his feet, and he had to grip the edge of the chair to stop from falling on his face. A wave of nausea crashed over him, but he managed not to show it. There was a blonde girl pulling him towards the door, and he watched her hips sway with every step she took. Who was she? Where was she taking him? A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he grabbed the two duffel bags stored under the chair he had been sitting on. He couldn't quite remember whose they were, or why he wanted them, but he knew he wanted them, needed them for some reason. No one tried to stop him taking them, so he decided slowly that they must be his. It smelled like smoke and piss in here, and from somewhere far away, a dog was barking. They sounds changed suddenly to pathetic whimpers and yelps of pain as someone started kicking it. The blonde girl had pulled him nearly to the door, her hand reaching to open it. A shape cloaked by the shadows in the corner stood, breaking away from the darkness to become a tall girl with freckles on her cheeks and nose. They looked as if they were swimming across her face, no, dancing across her face. Tendrils of darkness began to grow in the corner of Jean's eyes. He was outside, and the cold air whipping across his face did nothing to sober him. It was still raining, sooty water splashing Christa's- that was her name- hair. When she turned to look at him, the rain left streaks of soot down her face, like tears. There was a burst of noise and light behind him as someone opened the door of the bar, and then it shut again and it was just Jean and Christa standing in the filthy rain. No, there were three people. Christa said something, and someone who wasn't Jean answered her. Jean couldn't hear what their words were over the black spiders crawling over his eyes, blinding him. His hands loosened, and the bags fell to the ground, splashing slightly when they landed lightly in the puddles. The third person, the one Jean didn't know but Christa did know, picked them up. Jean reassured her that it was fine, the fabric was waterproof, he could pick them up, but the sounds he made weren't words. His eyes were closing, but it was hard to tell in the dark. Just before he became fully unconscious, he reflected that it was strange he was this drunk, when he couldn't recall having more than two drinks.


End file.
